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My youngest son came home today
His friends marched with him all the way
The fife and drum beat out the time
While in his box of polished pine
Like dead meat on a butcher's tray
My youngest son same home today

My youngest son was a fine young man
With a wife, a daughter and two sons
And a man he would have lived and died
Till by a bullet sanctified
Now he's a saint or so they say
They brought their young saint home today

An irish sky looks down and weeps
Upon the narrow belfast streets
At children's blood in gutters spilled
In dreams of glory unfulfilled
As part of freedom's price to pay
My youngest son came home today

My youngest son came home today
His friends marched with him all the way
The pipe and drum beat out the time
While in his box of polished pine
Like dead meat on a butcher's tray
My youngest son came home today
And this time he's here to stay

Words and music: eric bogle
My youngest son came home today   His friends marched with him all the way   The fife and drum beat out the time   While in his box of polished pine   Like dead meat on a butcher's tray   My youngest son same home today      My youngest son was a fine young man   With a wife, a daughter and two sons   And a man he would have lived and died   Till by a bullet sanctified   Now he's a saint or so they say   They brought their young saint home today      An irish sky looks down and weeps   Upon the narrow belfast streets   At children's blood in gutters spilled   In dreams of glory unfulfilled   As part of freedom's price to pay   My youngest son came home today      My youngest son came home today   His friends marched with him all the way   The pipe and drum beat out the time   While in his box of polished pine   Like dead meat on a butcher's tray   My youngest son came home today   And this time he's here to stay      Words and music: eric bogle